


The Glass Ballerina

by Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark



Series: спасибо (thank you) [1]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Child Sexual Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Female-On-Male Rape, Male-on-male rape, Masturbation (underage character), Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sort of Dead Dove, Warning: Underage Sex (rape), physical injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-02 20:11:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15803742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark
Summary: The year is 1994, the month is June, and Dominick Carisi is fourteen years old. Always underfoot in his family's tiny apartment, he's sent upstate for the summer to his aunt Marie's farm. Dom, as he likes to be called, doesn't mind the work. He only kind of minds when Marie loans him to her nearest neighbor. What he does mind is the neighbor's strange behavior.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Read the tags. I cannot make it any clearer what happens during this story.
> 
> Disclaimer: see [my profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/profile).
> 
> I have been writing this story for years now (at least three, I think). I have finally almost finished it! (One last chapter to add and then editing.)
> 
> This is the prequel to [I Miss You Even Though You're Still Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5263091/chapters/12144194), which I promise, I am trying to work on. It is not necessary to read this to understand Dom's role in _I Miss You_.
> 
> Thank you to all who take a chance with it.

~ * ~

Dominick is too hot, standing in the beating sun, backpack slung over one shoulder, hand raised to shield his eyes from the glare coming off the apparitions on the baking asphalt.

The bus behind him had no air conditioning, and, despite the windows being lowered as far as they could, it was still stifling.

It’s not much better out here in the open air.

His t-shirt, a pale blue affair from Theresa’s JV volleyball days, is soaked with sweat and sticking to his skin. His jeans are dusty and faded, a hand-me-down from his dad and tied around his narrow waist with a length of rope. His shoes are Gina’s old things—she hits him whenever he remarks that her feet are still larger than his and he’s well on his way to having big feet—black and dirty white, laces so shredded he doesn’t dare untie them, toeing them on and off when the occasion calls for it.

Dom shrugs, feeling the pull of his overstuffed bag. He’s only got about three shirts, some undergarments and deodorant, a change of jeans, and a raggedy dog named Caesar he takes everywhere, but it might as well be the kitchen sink for how heavy it is.

Thinking of sinks makes Dom think of water, and he swallows, the sticky-dry of his throat making him a bit sick. He also remembers at this moment that he’s forgotten his toothbrush. Oh, Mom will be furious, he thinks. She’d reminded him no less than five times to pack it, too.

He shrugs again, starting to walk to a tree he catches sight of, hanging out by its lonesome in front of what must have been an old feed store.

Dom’s been interested in old westerns, all those stories of living and working on a ranch. He knows it wasn’t glamorous, never had thought that. But still, Mom and Dad decided he was in the way this summer—such a lie, Theresa and Gina, both supposed to be taking classes at the high school for college prep were more in the way—and subsequently had shipped him off to his Aunt Marie’s farm for a month or two.

Mom kept talking of the benefits of hard work, and Dom wonders who will do his chores while he’s gone. Bella only does stuff if Mom and Dad pay her, Gina is afraid to break a nail, and Theresa already has a job, working at the mall as a “beautician.”

Either way, he’s here now, and it’s not doing him any favors dwelling on why he’s been sent away and what’s going to happen to his family while he’s gone.

He makes it to the tree, setting down the backpack and using it as a pillow to lie on the ground and look up at the sky.

Aunt Marie is supposed to pick him up, but he doesn’t know where she lives or what her schedule is like. He hasn’t seen her since he was nine, when her husband died.

Cloud watching and daydreaming. Two things that got him in trouble at school—and what a miracle, Mom had said, when he didn’t have to take summer classes too. He floats around a bit, imagining climbing the tree and jumping into the sky.

He’s just starting to drift off when a sudden, sharp bleat of a horn startles him.

He sits up, staring.

There is a red pickup truck sitting in the bus depot. At least, Dom thinks it’s red. It’s got so many pieces changed out; a white fender, a black hood, a blue roof. The back of the truck is peeling paint and the doors are rusted out.

Leaning on the horn, hanging out of the window and yelling at him to move his goddamn lazy ass is his Aunt Marie. She hasn’t really changed much in five years. Her brown hair is still long, tied back in a braid that looks less like an actual braid than someone trying to deal with a nuisance. A straw hat sits crooked on her head, a faded blue ribbon blowing in whatever breeze there is.

Dom licks his finger and tests. Nope, he still can’t feel anything. Her hat must be defying the laws of physics.

She honks at him again, and he stands up, dragging the backpack up with him. He stumbles across the road, unsure if his legs are unsteady because he’s really thirsty, throat burning with the need for something liquid, or because he’s always been a little shy around people he doesn’t know well.

It’s a trait Theresa’s trying to break him out of, since right now, it means anyone can and does walk all over him, the prime example being Bella, and Theresa says she wants him to a have a spine, especially because he’s going to be starting at the high school in the fall.

“So, you’re Dommie’s boy.” Aunt Marie grins at him when he struggles to open the passenger door. “You look just like him. No wonder they named you Dominick too.” She reaches over and shoves the door so it swings and knocks into Dom’s chest.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers quietly, uncertain if she’d even asked a question. He steps into the seat and heaves the door shut again. He searches for a seatbelt, turning to his aunt when he can’t find one.

“Oh,” she says, when he points to the empty end bracket. “That was cut out when Johnnie had his accident. He died right where you’re sitting.”

Dom stares at her in shock, his stomach tilting and rolling. She laughs suddenly, pointing out the window. Dom kneels on the seat, hanging his head out the window. It doesn’t make his nausea go away.

Then the vehicle lurches, and he scrambles back inside. Aunt Marie laughs again as she presses the accelerator, zipping through what surely must be an illegal U-turn.

“You’ll get used to it, boy.”

“My name’s Dom,” he mumbles.

“Speak up, Sonny, I can’t hear you,” she replies, laughing again. Dom hates her laugh. It’s ugly and loud and directed at him.

A few minutes of driving, and Dom trying to catch a glimpse of the speedometer ‘cause it feels like they’re speeding, and Marie turns to him. Dom watches the road for her, wincing as the truck wobbles over the side, kicking up gravel and dust, and then just as quickly swerves over the center line.

“Johnnie didn’t die in the car,” Aunt Marie says, sadly. Dom risks a quick glance at her, glad to see her eyes back on the road. He doesn’t say anything, and after a brief moment, she licks her lips and continues, “It was cancer.”

Johnnie was his dad’s brother, his uncle, and her husband.

He nods in understanding.

“This old thing doesn’t have belts. Haven’t needed them myself.”

Strangely, she falls quiet and does not say another word until they’re standing in front of her big, dilapidated house, him clutching his backpack and wishing he could dig Caesar out, her twirling a ring of keys on her finger, watching him examine the house.

There is a porch that wraps around the sides of the building. A few scraggly rose bushes stand guard by the front steps. Somehow, they make it less inviting than it already is.

“Your room is upstairs.” She points at the only window that doesn’t have curtains. “I’m downstairs if you need anything. You can have the rest of today to explore, but you’re not on vacation. You’re going to work, and I’ll have a list of things you’ll do tomorrow.”

“I understand,” he says. She nods toward the house and then leaves. Goes back to the truck and drives away again.

Dom licks his lips, tasting dust. It’s dry out here. Hot too, but at least he finally can feel the breeze.

He steps up to the house, aware he’s using his backpack to shield his body from anything that might pop out and hurt him.

Nothing bothers him as he slips into the house, relishing the dark, cool quiet. All the walls are papered in pale blue. It reminds him of his room back home. There are three covered windows, the curtains hiding most of the light, but it’s still enough to see by. So, he takes Aunt Marie at her word and starts exploring, imagining that he’s just discovered the habitat of a long-lost tribe of secluded people. He needs artifacts, history, maybe some water, too. He notes that the staircase that leads to upstairs is right by the front door. Bracketing it on the other side is an impressive cabinet with tall doors and small ivory handles. Around the corner, a crowded dining room greets him next. Papers and knickknacks piled high on every surface. Some of the papers have spilled over and lay haphazardly over the dark-colored carpet. A door stands open by the far wall, and he steps carefully around precarious stacks of Marie’s possessions. On his way through, he notices this room is papered in pale green.

Archeologist Dom nicks a small figurine, a tiny ballerina encased in glass, the whole thing no bigger than three inches, and tucks it carefully into his pocket for further study. Hopefully, the local populace won’t notice it’s gone missing before he can return it.

The next room, the kitchen, as neat and tidy as the previous room had been messy, is papered in pale pink. The windows aren’t fully covered, so the room looks and feels brighter and more airy than the rest of the house. It’s also warmer.

The stove is the same green as the dining room. So is the refrigerator.

The tiny kitchen table is covered in a yellow tablecloth, actual cloth—Dom folds an edge up and runs a finger over it before dropping it back down—instead of the vinyl his mom usesat home. On the wall are painted plates, and Dom examines each one carefully and quickly. Dates and places. Things that might interest him more.

He turns to the sink, taking in the ceramic tubs and the nickel-plated faucet. He flips on the cold tap, testing it with a finger until it’s really cold, leaning forward to drink right from it. He makes sure he doesn’t touch his mouth to it.

At last! His thirst is quenched.

He shuts off the faucet and dries his hands and mouth on his shirt. Mom’s voice flares in his head, some lecture she always gives him about towels and how clothes aren’t them. He ignores it, like he usually does, and heads to the back door. He peers out the window, watching as a black and white dog on a long chain circles around and around, sniffing at the dug-up ground.

Dom’s never been a fan of animals, not since he was chased by a Great Dane when he was four and his Grandma’s cat tried to take off his fingers when he was about six or seven. The white and black dog doesn’t seem dangerous, like the Great Dane had, so he opens the door quietly. It looks at him disinterestedly before it goes back to sniffing.

He stays away from it, just watching. Behind it, there’s a small house painted to look like a barn. The chain is attached to a ring stuck in the ground near this house. On the house is a sign proclaiming it to be “Stan’s Home.”

“Are you Stan?” Dom says, jumping slightly when his voice carries farther than he’d thought it would.

The dog looks up, huffs once, and goes back to circling and sniffing.

“I guess that’s a yes,” Dom says, much more quietly than before. He gives Stan a wide berth, but the dog doesn’t even look up again, and he continues exploring, fingering the glass ballerina every now and again as he climbs over a hill and stops at the sudden sight of another house, almost identical to his aunt’s.

It’s about a quarter of a mile away, and a quick glance back over his shoulder shows his aunt’s is at least that far from where he is.

He didn’t realize Marie had neighbors.

He hopes he doesn’t have to meet them.

The ballerina clinks softly against the harmonica Dom keeps in his pocket, so he pulls it out to look at it more closely.

In the bright sun, it looks remarkably like his aunt, with long brown hair pulled into a braid coiled into a tight bun on the top of her head. It even has the same bird nose, and the same narrow eyes as her.

Engraved on the bottom is a single word “спасибо.”

From his vantage point on the hill, he sees his aunt walk around her house, shade her eyes, and spot him. He slips the ballerina back into his pocket and starts walking back to her. At the same time, she cups her hand around her mouth and shouts, “Dominick! Supper!”

Her voice is loud enough to carry, and it makes Stan go crazy, jumping at her heels, barking. Warily, Dom reaches them, letting his aunt smooth her hands through his tangled hair.

“You need a haircut,” she remarks, running fingers through the strands.

“I forgot to bring a comb,” he says, suddenly remembering the fact, something else that his mom nagged him about.

“I’ve got spares,” Marie says. “What’s in your pocket?” She narrows her eyes at him, and he wonders if she knows he’s got her ballerina.

“My harmonica,” he replies, trying to keep his heart from beating right out of his chest. He pulls it out, fingers wrapped around it so it won’t clank the ballerina again. He blows a short note, wincing at the loudness of it.

“Goodness but you’re shy,” Marie remarks, one last brush over his hair with her fingers. “Well, we’ve got a long day tomorrow, so let’s eat and head to bed.”

Supper is cold stew and large glasses of milk, eaten sitting at the kitchen table. Dom tries to be polite and eat what Marie gives him, but the stew tastes funny and he’s never liked milk.

She sighs, as if she expected him to be difficult, and puts away his leftovers. Dom pretends that her disappointment doesn’t hurt.

She excuses him after the dishes are washed, set in a draining board to dry overnight. She leads him up the stairs, opening a door immediately to the right of the top of the banister.

“This is your room,” she explains, letting him look at the yellow-papered room with a desk in one corner, a bed with a white-and-yellow checkered quilt, and not much else.

Then she points to a door across the hall. “That’s the upstairs lavatory.” He nods. “Spare toothbrush and hairbrush are in there.”

She goes back downstairs, and Dom slips into the bathroom—purple paper—to scrub his teeth quickly with cold water and a freshly opened toothbrush. He also swipes a green-handled brush through his still-tangled hair, secretly agreeing with Marie that he needs a haircut.

In his room, he changes into a different t-shirt—one Dad gave him when he outgrew the pajamas Mom insisted he wear—and his boxers. He wraps the ballerina carefully in one of his spare shirts and tucks it into the bottom drawer of the desk. He folds his clothes neatly and sets them on top of the desk in the corner. He places his harmonica on the clothes.

Dom lies on the covers, staring up at the ceiling, willing his muscles to relax so he can sleep. It’s hard without the noise of the city and of his sisters fighting over the bathroom or banging on his wall to tell him goodnight.

After a good while, he gives up. It’s impossible for him to sleep—too hot, too bright—so he opens the window, relieved at the soundless way it slides up, and using a chair tucked under the desk in the corner, he climbs out onto the sloping roof to watch the sun slowly sink down. He has Caesar with him, the puppy watching the real dog sleeping half in his house half on the worn grass.

He falls asleep curled around Caesar, dreaming of flying across the night sky, chasing a ballerina who should be in a glass cage.

~ * ~


	2. Two

~ * ~

He wakes up when the sun rises. Birds trill from somewhere, and dew covers the roof around him. He’s cold, numb. One of Caesar’s paws is damp, like Dom’s been chewing on it, which he hasn’t done in years.

Climbing back inside the window proves a bit difficult, and he clatters onto the floor, dirty feet knocking against the chair he’d used last night, tipping it over.

Marie comes running into the room, wrapped in a pink robe with her hair long, loose, and tangled around her face. In her hand is a large stick.

Dom panics and crawls under the bed. A second later, Marie drops to her knees and peers under after him. He shuffles back until he hits the wall.

Her hand gropes around until it catches on his leg, and she yanks him out into the light.

“Dominick Paul Carisi!” she shouts, throwing both hands in the air before dropping them on his shoulders to pull him into a sitting position and shake him harshly. “You scared me half to death! What were you thinking?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he cries, trying to break her hold on him. “I was just outside.”

She stops shaking him, leaning back to look at him. Apparently, she finds something satisfactory and lets him go. He stays sitting on the floor while she stands up and steps away from him.

Marie picks up her stick, setting it on her shoulder like a baseball player. Her mouth is set in a thin line, lips pressed hard so it looks like a slash in her face.

“Well,” she finally says, “we’re up now. Might as well stay up. Your list of morning chores is on the fridge. See to it you get at least the first five done before breakfast.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dom says, nodding. Only after she leaves, closing his door quietly, does Dom feel embarrassed. Shame floods him at having been found in his underwear and at having been caught sneaking out.

He’d never done that at home, and to his knowledge none of his sisters even know what he wears to bed.

Now, his aunt knows and she knows that he can get out of the house at night.

Not that it matters, but Dom still feels the heat of his blush.

He changes quickly, skirting into the bathroom to scrub his teeth again and dampen his hair a bit. He applies some deodorant, rather aware of how ripe he must be getting in this heat.

The shirt today is a black Depeche Mode band tee. It was supposed to be a present for Bella last Christmas, but she up and decided she didn’t like them anymore—maybe ‘cause Mom and Dad decided she liked them—and Dom inherited the shirt.

He grabs the ballerina, his harmonica, and a pale blue handkerchief he finds in the top left drawer of the dresser before he sneaks down the stairs. Archeologist Dominick Carisi, back on the hunt for the indigenous people, replacing artifacts and ready to find even more evidence of their culture. He doesn’t encounter Marie as he sets the ballerina back in her spot in the dining room.

Marie is in the kitchen, when Dom makes his way there. She’s sipping at a cup of what smells like coffee, reading a paper, and nibbling at half a plain bagel.

The list of chores is on the fridge, where she said it would be, and Dom is less than pleased to see “Feed Stan” at number five.

“Do I have to do these in order?” Dom asks, looking at her carefully. She hasn’t reacted to his presence yet. “Or can I do them anyway I feel like?”

“In order, please,” she responds, nose still buried in the newspaper. “And, Dominick? Don’t talk to the farmhand. You’re not to get in his way at all.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He closes the door gently behind him, staring down Stan, who wags his tail expectantly.

“You’re number five, buddy,” he says, again walking a long way around the dog. The barn is first. Muck out the stalls. Makes sure the horses have hay. One and two. Three is collect eggs.

The sun, already warm on his skin promises another scorcher, and Dom wonders if this area ever gets any rain.

The barn door creaks loudly when Dom opens it, and he glances around, glad there’s no one near to hear all the noise he’s making.

Inside, it’s warm and it stinks. Dom wrinkles his nose. The ammonia is strongest from an open stall. Leaning against the stall, pitchfork in one hand, whip in the other, is a tall dark-haired man with a cowboy hat tipped low over his eyes. Dom startles. He wasn’t expecting to encounter the farmhand so quickly.

“You’re late, boy,” the man says, voice deep and rumbling. He sets the pitchfork against the stall, moving to cross his arms, the whip swishing gently.

“Sorry, sir,” Dom says, double-checking his list. Yep, mucking. “I’ll just get on with the chores then.” He looks around for a pair of gloves, disappointed when he sees none. “Excuse me,” he says to the man. He looks pointedly at the man’s gloves, and the man laughs.

“You’ll find work gloves in the tack room, the room just off the side of the barn.”

“Thank you.”

Dom turns to go, and the man moves, silent, quick, a hand latching onto Dom’s shoulder. Dom jumps under the man’s touch.

The man laughs again. “So, kid,” he says, and they walk to the tack room together, the man’s fingers flexing on Dom’s shoulder, “you’re here for your aunt? Why?”

“I don’t really know. My parents thought it’d be good for me, I guess.” The tack room is filled with riding equipment. Dom sees saddles and more whips, like the one the man is still holding.

“I’m Joseph.” the man sticks out his empty hand and Dom shakes it hesitantly.

“Dominick.”

“Nice to meet you, Dominick. Oh, if your aunt told you not to speak to me, don’t put much stock in it. It’s a holdover from her husband. He didn’t quite believe in knowing the staff personally.”

Dom nods slowly, takes his time picking out a pair of gloves that looks like it will fit. “Okay,” he says softly. “Well, I guess I better get to my chores. Stan might get angry with me if I don’t feed him on time.”

Joseph laughs yet again, and Dom narrows his eyes, unsure if there’s something wrong with the man.

Thankfully, he leaves shortly after, and Dom sets to work on mucking the stall. He hefts each forkful of manure into a wheelbarrow he finds by the back entrance. A quick peek shows that this is the only stall that needs cleaning, for which Dom is immensely grateful.

Behind the barn is a structure built out of four corner posts and orange snow-fence. It’s in here that Dom dumps the manure. He washes the gloves, the pitchfork, and the wheelbarrow under the outdoor spigot on the west side of the barn.

Done with that and with washing his hands and arms as long as he can stand to keep them in the cold water, the heat of the day in full force and only making the water feel colder, Dom goes back into the barn, still wrinkling his nose in distaste at the persistent ammonia odor.

Hay for the horses, which turns out to be just one horse, an older gelding. The poor thing snorts as he chucks in a quarter of a bale. He snorts back and gives him another quarter. He’ll eat well today, at least. Let Joseph or Marie tell him he’s doing it wrong.

Two chores down. Eggs next.

The hen house is on the far side of the barn, away from Stan’s doghouse. Dom wonders if it’s to keep the dog from sneaking a chicken every now and again, but realizes it’s probably more to protect the dog when the hens start pecking his ankles. A basket hangs from a nail on the outside of the coop. Dom grabs it and heads into the coop, which he thinks stinks just as bad as the barn.

The eggs are still warm when he digs through the straw nests to find them. They’re larger than the eggs Mom gets, and he marvels at each one. Some are smooth and some are rough. There’s a fair mix of brown and white shells, and Dom organizes them by color. All told, from about two dozen hens, there’s maybe twenty eggs.

After eggs comes brushing the horse. Then feeding Stan. Then breakfast. Dom is starving by now, so he can only imagine how hungry Stan is. The dog barks at him when he takes the eggs to the kitchen. Marie is nowhere in sight when Dom sets the basket on the table.

Her bagel is sitting half eaten on the plate, the empty coffee mug set next to it. Dom sighs, trudging past a whining Stan.

“I promise I’ll be faster tomorrow,” he says, waving at the dog.

The barn doesn’t smell any nicer when he enters again. He finds a thick-bristled brush with a leather strap that fits over his hand in the tack room. The horse snorts when he starts brushing him.

A hundred strokes, Dom decides, like Mom brushing Bella’s long hair. In the middle of twenty or thirty, moving up from the rear left flank, Joseph passes through the barn, cracking his whip at Dom and startling the gelding. The poor horse whines and prances, hooves stomping dangerously close to Dom’s sneakers.

“Jerk,” Dom spits as soon as the man is gone and he’s got the gelding calmed.

He lays the brush on a side table, intending to come back later and clean it before he puts it away. Stan whines again when Dom crosses his path.

“It’s your turn,” he says angrily, hauling a hefty bag of dog food from the back porch out to the dog’s house. He digs around inside the structure, pulling out a plastic blue dish. Stan starts racing in circles, his chain clanking softy as it drags over the dirt. Dom grabs handfuls, maybe a cup and a half of the dry food, spilling it into the dish. While Stan chomps, crunching through the food alarmingly fast, Dom reaches back into the dog’s house and pulls out a red dish. He takes this to the spigot on the side of the barn.

Stan’s slowed down when Dom brings back the full water dish, and he gives him a quick scratch behind the ears.

Maybe animals aren’t so bad, he thinks. At least they wouldn’t ever pull the stunt that Joseph did.

Dom grabs the sack of dog food and drags it back to the porch where Marie is standing, hands on hips, glaring at him.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demands when he stops moving, swiping a hand through his too-long hair to get it out of his eyes. He grimaces at the way it sticks up, soaked through as it is with sweat. He also notices he reeks.

“What?” he asks. He looks down at his shoes, which are not any dirtier than they were yesterday. So, it can’t be from dragging mud—or worse—into her house. He shrugs.

“You spoke to the farmhand.”

Dom freezes. How did she know that?

Either she saw them or Joseph told her. It’s another reason to dislike the man.

“It won’t happen again, I promise,” he says. Marie doesn’t look like she believes him, but at least she steps back so he can enter the kitchen again.

“Also,” she says, hand clamping down on his shoulder and squeezing just shy of painfully, “you gave Brunt too much hay. Next time, give him only a quarter of a bale. You’ll feed him twice a day, once before breakfast and once before supper. You’ll take him out to pasture after lunch. Take the dog with you and watch out for rattlers.”

Dom shakes her hand off so he can wash his hands thoroughly at the sink. “Rattlers aren’t common in New York State,” he replies, keeping his eyes on the suds on his hands so he won’t have to know if his aunt is annoyed at this information. He’s had worse reactions than any face she can make.

“All the same,” she says, tone bland, “keep an eye open.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. His breakfast, according to Marie, is a bowl of cold cereal and a couple pieces of toast. Mom would be proud.

He still doesn’t like the milk, but under Marie’s watchful eye, Dom manages to finish it. He takes his dishes to the sink.

“I’ll do them later,” she tells him, handing him another list of chores. This one has weeding, painting, and walking Stan.

Simple.

“You have a garden?” Dom hasn’t seen it yet. It must be on one of the sides of the house he hasn’t explored. The backyard’s held all his attention so far.

Marie nods. “It’s on the west side. I grow most of the vegetables I use in the kitchen there. Also, some flowers Johnnie adored.” She shoos him toward the front of the house. “You’ll find gloves and tools in the cabinet by the door. It shouldn’t take more than two hours to weed and water.”

She grabs the hat she had yesterday, plopping it on Dom’s head as she shoves him into the dining room. As soon as she returns to the kitchen, he rips the hat off and tosses it onto the covered table.

At the same time, and keeping a close eye on the doorway, he slips the glass ballerina back into his pocket, wrapping it in the handkerchief so it won’t clank against the harmonica.

Then, in an ornately carved umbrella stand, he unearths a small watering can. Probably not what Marie had in mind, though.

Dom steps carefully, shaking each foot as it comes off the floor, sure there’s papers and dust sticking to his heels. The carpet, thick and lush, sends up clouds of dust motes as he moves, and he sneezes no less than three times before he reaches the front door.

The cabinet divests handheld hoes and rakes and larger watering can. He remembers to grab a pair of dirt-stained gloves too.

Outside, the sunshine makes him sneeze again. He sniffles miserably, wiping his runny nose on the bottom of his shirt. His mom scolds him in his head, even pointing out that he has a perfectly good, _borrowed_ handkerchief in his pocket.

He wipes his nose again for good measure.

The garden, right where Marie said it would be, is impressive. She must cook with a lot of vegetables to need such a large plot.

Dom remembers the stew and thinks, viciously, she only _imagines_ she can cook.

Surprisingly, there aren’t a whole lot of weeds that need to be pulled. What takes the longest is watering each row. He lugs the watering can to and from the spigot off the barn, aware of the deteriorating condition of his sneakers. Mud squelches in his shoes and he feels a blister forming on his right big toe.

All of two hours later, Dom’s finally done. He washes off his feet and shoes and the gloves and tools, laying them on top of the hen house to dry. While he’s by the barn, he checks on Brunt, finding the horse to be placidly chewing on some excess hay from the morning. He cleans the brush and puts it away, checking into every crevice to make sure Joseph is nowhere near the poor horse.

Back at the house, Marie has a ladder and a bucket of paint by the back porch.

Joy.

At least Dom’s not afraid of heights, unlike Theresa, and he has actually painted a wall before, thank you, Gina.

He’s halfway done with the east side when Marie finds him again. She’s holding a pair of well-worn cowboy boots.

“These were Johnnie’s,” she says when he climbs down the ladder and closes the paint can. “You can wear them for chores.”

“Thank you,” he says, wondering why she’s giving him her dead husband’s shoes. “Do you want me to keep painting, or should I walk Stan now?”

“Walk the dog. You can finish painting after you take Brunt out to pasture.” She turns away from him, and he starts folding the ladder. “One more thing,” she says, and he looks at her, reacting just in time to catch the object she lobs at him.

It’s a pocket watch, complete with a chain and fob to attach to his jeans. He turns it over in his hands, admiring the polished gold exterior. Engraved in flowing script, is the word “спасибо” again. A sinking feeling grows in the pit of his stomach. First his uncle’s shoes, now his watch?

“Johnnie always said our son would have that, but we didn’t have any boys. He thought you were the next best thing.” She turns away again, turning back just as suddenly as the first time. “He really did will it to you.” She sighs, rubbing at her eyes. “I was just…not ready to part with it. Maybe I am now.”

“Thank you,” he says again, suppressing a shudder. Something’s not right with Marie. She watches him clip the watch to a belt loop on his jeans, nodding in approval as he slides it into his pocket. The watch in one pocket and the glass ballerina and his harmonica in the other. Dom tightens the rope he uses as a belt to keep his pants from slipping off his hips. He doesn’t miss the way Marie eyes the rope and he desperately hopes Johnnie didn’t leave him a belt in his will too.

“I’ll just walk Stan now?” he says, and Marie shakes herself.

“You do that, Dominick. I’ll call you in for dinner soon.”

Finally, she disappears into the house, and Dom walks to Stan’s house, unlocking the chain by opening the quick link. Stan surges forward to sniff outside of his worn circle, pulling Dom with him.

“Slow down, Stan!”

The dog doesn’t listen, and Dom runs to keep up. They make good time, heading toward the hill from which he’d seen the other house. Stan pauses momentarily, sending Dom pitching over the top. He stumbles to a stop, and stares at the house. If anything, it looks like it’s in worse shape than Marie’s house. Certainly, the rose bushes and the painting are helping Marie. This house could use a new back porch, maybe a new roof, and definitely new paint.

He can see a figure poking around the side of the house, a stooped woman stabbing a stick into the ground. Stan sees her too and takes off, dragging Dom with him as he lopes easily along.

The woman jerks upright when Dom yells for Stan to stop, but the dog doesn’t heed him, racing closer to the house, turning sharply as he follows the wall, heading right for the woman. Dom opens his mouth to shout for her to take cover when something slams into him, into his head.

He doesn’t even see what he hit, blackness descending quickly as he crumples to the ground.

~ * ~


	3. Three

~ * ~

Dom wakes up to light dancing all over the ceiling. The brightness spikes pain in his head. He moans softly and tries to turn away from it.

A cool cloth drops over his face, and he sighs in relief as the light is finally silenced.

“I’m going to kill that dog,” Marie says, sharply. Dom winces at her tone, glad she’s talking about Stan instead of him. He feels a pang of sympathy for the creature though. Stan probably didn’t mean to injure him.

“Now, Marie,” an unfamiliar voice soothes. Dom can smell the tea they’re drinking and it makes his stomach lurch uncomfortably. “Stan didn’t mean anything. You know he’s always excited to see me.”

It’s gotta be the woman they saw.

“If you’re saying this is my nephew’s fault in any way…” Marie trails off at the same time her hand comes to rest on Dom’s shoulder. She squeezes gently. “What if it’s worse than it looks? I should take him to the hospital.”

The woman scoffs. “A two hour journey? No, Marie, he’s better here. It’s just a little blood and he’ll probably have a headache for a while. Your nephew will be fine.”

They are quiet for a few moments, presumably to sip at their tea.

“Although, I would lay off the chores for a bit. Just until he’s back on his feet.”

“Fine,” Marie agrees. The cloth lifts, and Dom squints into the returned light. Marie, two Maries, horribly out of focus and haloed by the light, stare down at him. “I guess I should have told you not to let the dog lead.”

Dom grunts softly. Marie’s faces swell, and Dom feels his stomach flip again, more urgently. “Think I feel sick,” he says, and Marie pushes him onto his side so he can vomit into a bucket the other woman shoves under his mouth.

“Maybe you should take him to the hospital,” the woman says, adopting a worried tone. Dom peeks up at her through his lashes. She looks excited. “I’ll come with.”

Marie frowns. Her hand stays on Dom’s side, the warmth seeping in. It’s kind of cool in what must be the woman’s house, windows curtained like Marie’s, with just enough space at the top of the windows that light comes in anyway. Dom shivers, and Marie starts rubbing his side, her hand moving up and down.

“Very well,” she finally says. “I doubt I’d be able to move him myself, and I’d rather not involve Joseph.”

Together, they stand Dom up. He sways on his feet, clutching at the bucket the woman presses against his chest. His head throbs and his stomach rolls again. Weakly, he spits into the bucket, barely aware of his aunt draping the not-as-cool cloth over the back of his neck.

“Come on, Dominick,” Marie whispers, her arm around his shoulders. The woman wraps her arm around his waist and they half-carry him out to the back porch. His aunt’s mixed-up truck is there.

It takes very little actual time for the women to get Dom into the vehicle. Marie cranks the engine and floors it, the inertia flattening all three of them into the seats.

Squeezed in between both of them, Dom keeps his head in the bucket, gagging on the smell of the throw up already in it. He’s still double-visioned but it’s getting better. The pain in his head has settled into his nose, and a quick swipe at his upper lip finds blood.

“Don’t worry, honey,” the woman says, rubbing his side much the same way Marie had earlier, “it’s probably not broken.”

“Shut up, Sally,” Marie spits. Sally laughs, and her fingernails dig into Dom’s side. “I don’t need you scaring him any more than he already is.”

“I can appreciate that,” Sally says, rubbing away the hurt she inflicted. Dom squirms. He doesn’t like her. She’s too…something. He decides he’ll ask Marie about her later. For now though, he leans forward until he can press his forehead against the dash, feeling the heat of the day and the breeze from the open windows as Marie speeds.

One of the two, his money is on Sally, pats at his back, rubbing circles between his shoulders.

He risks a peek at her to find her staring down at him, a smile on her lips. She raises a finger to press against that smile, and Dom turns back to his bucket. What does she want him to be quiet about?

He blinks between one bump and the next to find that they’re in a different town than the one he rolled into yesterday on the bus.

Marie looks more worried than before while Sally grins gleefully whenever Marie isn’t looking.

They go to a clinic hanging off the side of the general store and an old man with shaking hands examines Dom.

“Minor concussion,” he announces. “Plenty of bedrest and taking it easy.” He taps Dom’s head, just to the side of the bump. “You’re lucky, young man. Coulda been a lot worse.”

“Thank you, Dr. Cummings,” Marie says. She shakes the doctor’s hand. “Payment will be in a couple weeks.”

Dr. Cummings waves her off. “Don’t worry, my darling. Pretty sure you’ll be back in with this boy if he’s anything like a typical child.” Dr. Cummings studies Dom before shaking his head and clucking his tongue. “See that he gets plenty of sunshine and exercise. The bones of this child.”

Dom looks down at himself. He’s only a little underweight. Hardly just “bones.”

“Will do, Dr. Cummings. Thank you again.”

The ride back to Marie’s farm seems much slower than the ride out, and Dom makes a note that the town with the doctor is in the opposite direction of the town with the bus.

“You should go upstairs and rest,” Marie tells him when she parks by the back door. Sally slides out, holding the door for him while he climbs out of the truck too.

Dom manages the stairs on his own, crawling onto the bed. A few minutes or an hour later, Marie checks on him. She takes off his shoes and sets them under the bed. “Rest, Dominick. I’ll check on you in fifteen minutes.”

He waits until he hears her on the steps and then he stands up and opens the window. While his head still hurts, he doesn’t feel nearly as ill anymore, and he’s able to climb down the drain pipe and walk to Stan’s doghouse. Stan whines when he sees him, tail wagging. As soon as Dom sits down, Stan leans against him, nosing at his neck and face.

“I’m not mad,” Dom tells him, scratching behind his ears. “I promise.”

Marie finds him out there twenty minutes later, curled around Stan, half asleep in the sun and the warmth of Stan’s coat.

She doesn’t chastise him, but he can see the anger and fear in her eyes when she rouses him.

“I meant rest in your bed,” she tells him as she helps him upstairs again.

Dom nods even though his head protests. Marie sighs, tucking him in. “Rest,” she enunciates, pecking his forehead with a gentle kiss.

He does sleep then, slightly inclined with a pillow behind his head.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the start for all the warnings.
> 
> I am not a medical professional. As such, it should be completely understood that this is fiction and it is likely that Dom suffered a severe concussion (I believe (via extremely lacking research) any loss of consciousness from a blow may result in a moderately severe to a completely severe concussion).
> 
> This story will be fully posted inside of a week.
> 
> Thank you to all who have and will read. It is greatly appreciated.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: warnings are for this chapter and onward.

~ * ~

Dom doesn’t wake up until Marie shakes him the next morning.

He blinks blearily at her, wondering if he has to do the chores this morning. Marie hands him a cup of water and a white pill.

“Tylenol,” she says when he just stares at it. “Go on, it’ll help with your head.”

A painkiller. Right. Dom’s not used to getting those. Mom saves all the painkillers at home for his sisters when they have their menstrual cycles. Gina cramps badly and Theresa gets migraines. They’re waiting on Bella to see how bad hers will be.

Obediently, he swallows the pill and half the water. Then, Marie says, “Breakfast. Then chores. I told Joseph to help you today. Tomorrow you should be okay on your own.”

Dom drags himself to the bathroom where he splashes water on his bruised face and tries to scrape the fuzzy feeling out of his ears.

By the time he makes it downstairs, he feels a little more human and is actually able to eat a couple bites of cold cereal.

Outside, the fresh air does more for clearing his head than the water did, and he heads for the barn.

The ammonia is both more and less bothersome than it was yesterday. Less because Dom is expecting it and more because it makes his headache flare.

Joseph is waiting by Brunt’s stall. His whip is on his hip, but he doesn’t seem inclined to pull it out. He settles back to watch Dom struggle with the shovel, scooping up Brunt’s shit and depositing it in the wheelbarrow.

When he comes back to feed Brunt, remembering that it’s only a quarter of a bale that he gets, Joseph grabs his shoulder, squeezing painfully. “Leave her alone,” he hisses against his ear. He lets him go and shoves off, stalking away.

“Who?” Dom mutters to Joseph’s back. If he means Marie, Dom’s her nephew. He has more right to be in Marie’s house than Joseph does.

He shrugs it off. If Joseph threatens him again, he’ll tell Marie.

Eggs, he reminds himself, trudging out to the hen house. He pauses when he notices the woman from yesterday standing there, clucking at the chickens.

She smiles at him as he grabs the basket for the eggs.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she says, sucking in a breath when he turns to face her and she sees his face. “That’s a nasty mark there,” she says, fingers hovering over his nose. She isn’t much taller than him, and he finds he doesn’t mind it as much as his sisters mind that he’s already taller than them (of course he is taller than Bella; she’s the youngest).

“Please don’t touch me,” he says, harsher than he means, but he can feel the throb of his heartbeat in his nose. “I need to finish my chores.”

“I can help you.” She takes the basket, ducking into the coop. Dom follows. It is a relief to rest against the wall while she searches the nests efficiently.

He rouses when he feels her hand touch his stomach. He blinks his eyes open to find her staring at him, the basket between them, her eyes on his mouth.

She leans closer, and Dom clears his throat. She smiles at him. “Do you remember my name?”

He shakes his head. He knows Marie used it yesterday, but he barely remembers the doctor’s visit.

“I’m Sally Goodhue.”

“Ms. Goodhue,” Dom says, “thank you for helping me with the eggs.” He closes his hand around the handle, but she doesn’t let go, instead using it to tug him forward and off balance. He stumbles, trying to keep his feet. He thinks he should have put on his uncle’s boots, but he’d barely managed to slip on his sneakers before heading downstairs.

“Call me Sally,” she says right before she smashes their mouths together.

Dom has never been kissed before. He freezes, and she uses it as an opening to press harder, to force her tongue in his mouth. It’s…gross. He tries pushing her away, but she uses her grip on the basket to keep him against her.

When she finally lets him pull away, he wipes at his mouth, nausea surging in his stomach.

“I,” he starts only for Sally to put her finger to his lips.

“That was wonderful, sweetheart. I can’t wait to show you how wonderful everything else is too.”

“I don’t want you to,” Dom says. He doesn’t know what everything else is, but he can guess. Gina once tried to explain why she liked boys so much, but Dom didn’t want to hear about his sister in backseats and in bedrooms when parents weren’t around.

He steps back, turning away from Sally so that he can exit the hen house.

He doesn’t run from her, but he certainly doesn’t walk either. Marie looks up when he enters the kitchen.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, gripping her mug tightly.

“I’m fine,” Dom says, and it’s only a little lie. He grabs a glass from the cupboard and runs the tap into it. Marie watches him drink it.

When he’s done, she sighs. “Come here.” He sits across the table from her. “What’s wrong? Does your head hurt?”

“It does, but it’s not bad.” Dom looks out toward the barn, absurdly grateful that the chicken coop is on the other side and that Sally isn’t visible. Dom doesn’t know what his face would do if he saw her again, and he doesn’t want to tell his aunt about her. He thinks she won’t believe him, might maybe say that it’s a good thing someone is interested in showing him the ropes.

He knows that’s what Gina or Theresa would say.

“I’ve got to brush Brunt and feed Stan.” He stands up and doesn’t waver on his feet. Marie lets him go, watching him still. Dom doesn’t care. Really he doesn’t.

Sally isn’t anywhere to be found, and Dom is able to complete his chores in peace.

It isn’t until he’s out in the pasture, Stan sitting at his feet while Brunt trots back and forth, snorting into the tall grass, that Dom sees Sally again.

She leans against the fence, blowing him a kiss when she notices him staring.

“Come here, sweetheart, I want to show you something.”

Dom knows he shouldn’t, but he’s curious. And anyway, he can always set Stan on her if he doesn’t like it.

“My name is Dom,” he tells her, unsure why he does. He opens the gate. Stan doesn’t follow him, and Dom shakes off the shiver of cold that crawls down his spine.

“Dom,” Sally repeats. “That’s a nice name.”

Dom shrugs. He shoves his hands in his pockets, encountering the pocket watch on one side and the glass ballerina and his harmonica on the other.

“Come on, Dom. We need to go over there.” Sally points toward a grove of trees, the only shade that isn’t near the pasture.

Dom isn’t sure what he’s going to find, but he certainly isn’t expecting the blanket spread across the ground, weighted down with large boxes on the corners. Sally opens one to reveal a stack of books. She plucks one out and lets it fall open in her hands.

“Have you ever read _O Pioneers!_ by Willa Cather?” she asks.

Dom nods. Theresa let him read her copy last year. He hadn’t fully understood the story, but he’d been sad when Marie and Emil were killed. He looks down at the blanket again and is reminded of their deaths. They had been under a grove of trees when Marie’s husband had found them.

Sally pats the blanket next to her. “Sit, please. I really want to show you something.”

Despite his trepidation, Dom sinks down onto the blanket. He lets Sally push him back, lets her kiss him again, lets her do everything.

He doesn’t know how to say _no_ or _stop_ or _I don’t like this_.

After, he collects Stan and Brunt and heads back to the barn where he quickly feeds and brushes Brunt again before he secures Stan to his house, filling his bowls with food and water.

He feels different, new, remade, stained, and tarnished. He thinks it’s obvious when he runs into Marie in the kitchen, but she barely glances at him, grunting in greeting.

It’s stew again tonight. Dom thinks about begging off, but all he’s eaten today is the meager cereal this morning and a sandwich for lunch.

Marie slops a bowl down in front of him, and he waits patiently while she dishes up for herself and sits down. Marie doesn’t say grace, so Dom thinks of one in his head.

The stew is just as atrocious as the first day, but he’s too hungry not to eat, and Marie smiles when his spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl.

“Seconds?” she asks, and he shakes his head. He isn’t _that_ hungry.

“No, I’m okay.” He shrugs, feeling crusty in more ways than just sweat-soaked. “A shower?” he asks.

Marie nods. “Towels are under the sink. Just leave your clothes folded neatly and I’ll get them washed.” She twirls her finger at him. “Don’t forget to empty your pockets.”

Dom sets his bowl and spoon in the sink, wishes his aunt good night, and goes upstairs. He stops in his room to stick the contents of his pockets as deep into his backpack as he can, covering them with the handkerchief. He pulls out a fresh pair of jeans and t-shirt, leaving both on the desk. Then, he grabs a clean pair of boxers and his dad’s old t-shirt.

The pipes creak loudly as he turns on the water, and it takes a long time to warm up enough for him to feel comfortable enough to climb into the tub.

It’s not actually a shower, but Dom’s too old for baths, so he doesn’t plug the tub, using a washcloth smeared with the bar soap he finds on the corner of the tub. He scrubs perfunctorily, washing away dirt and sweat, and lower, semen and fluid. Once he finally feels clean, he shuts off the water and wraps himself in a large towel.

He sits on the toilet, looking down at his thin chest, and his concave stomach. He doesn’t know what Sally sees in him, why she wanted to do that with him. He thinks he should be grateful for her, for the things she did, but all he can see is a twisted monster leering at him.

He stands up, dresses quickly, and folds his clothes, leaving them on the toilet.

He lies down  on the bed, holding Caesar. He’s fourteen. Too old for baths and stuffed animals, and yet here he is clinging to Caesar like the inanimate dog can save him. Dom wishes he’d taken a bath instead.

He wonders if Sally will seek him out tomorrow, and he doesn’t know if he wants her to or not.

Dom closes his eyes, unsure why he’s crying and sure that he’ll never stop.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-Beta read. I will edit when I have more time.
> 
> Thank you to all who read. It is greatly appreciated.


	5. Five

~ * ~

Dom does his chores woodenly, and Marie doesn’t seem to notice that he barely eats any of his cereal—which he notices is the uneaten portion from yesterday. It sits heavy and bulbous in Dom’s belly. He drags his feet, stuffed deep in Johnnie’s boots, trudging from one task to another. Even with how long he takes, he still finishes painting the east side and starts working on the south side. He completes that easily since most of the siding is covered by her wrap-around porch, and the inside is a different color than what she gave him to paint outside.

Afterward, he drinks three glasses of water and pretends not to see Sally sneaking through Marie’s rosebushes as he slips out back to take Brunt to the pasture.

The blanket and the boxes are still there when he checks, and Dom hides on the other side of the pasture. He watches Brunt browsing while Stan pants at his feet.

Sally finds him anyway, and takes him back to the blanket. This time, she tells him, she wants him on top.

Dom doesn’t know what to do or how to do it, and she laughs as she guides him in.

“Perfect,” she purrs when he thrusts uncoordinated between her legs.

He freezes when he ejaculates. Sally pets him, letting him roll off. “That was good, wasn’t it?” She smiles, eyes twinkling.

“Why are you doing this?” Dom asks.

“Making love with you?” Sally asks.

Dom shrugs. It doesn’t feel like love, if he’s being honest.

Sally shrugs too. “It just feels right. You’re a beautiful boy, Dom. You deserve to feel how beautiful.” She smiles again, and her hand drops onto his bare thigh, squeezing gently. “Let me?” she says and then doesn’t wait for his answer before she puts her mouth on him.

She spends two hours showing him how to thrust when there’s a mouth on him, a vagina, fingers skirting his hole, her hole, how to lick her clean of everything and then make her wet again.

By the time she finally lets him go, he has so much knowledge rattling around in his head, and he still feels wrong, something slick twisting in his stomach.

He walks slowly, Brunt nudging at his shoulder, Stan loping alongside easily as they head to the barn.

Joseph is waiting in Brunt’s stall when Dom leads him in.

“I told you,” Joseph says, anger burning in his eyes. “I told you to leave her alone.” He uncoils his whip, and Dom doesn’t blink at him when he runs the handle over his cheek, tapping it against his bruised nose.

“Go to the tack room, strip, bend over, and hold your ankles.”

“No,” Dom returns. He latches Brunt in his stall and heads for Stan’s house to feed him. Joseph grabs his arm, jerking him harshly. Dom fights, digging in his heels and scratching at every part of Joseph he can reach. Still, Joseph drags him to the tack room. He throws Dom inside, kicking him in the side before he can stand up again.

Dom curls around the pain. Joseph’s boot slams down in the center of his back. He leans over Dom, eyes wild, mouth stretching wide, lips flecked with spittle as he hisses threats at him. Joseph flicks out a knife, and Dom flinches away. There’s nowhere to go. The tack room is too small and Dom’s shoved half under the equipment table. Joseph pins him with a knee across his legs and cuts away his shirt.

His pants are sliced off too, boxers joining them moments later. Dom stills when Joseph spits on his hole, still open from Sally’s play.

“Oh, you’re one of those,” Joseph says, demented grin a grotesque mask on his face. He uses the thumb of one hand to jab at Dom there, and his digit sinks in to the first knuckle. Dom bites his lips bloody when Joseph stretches him barely enough to take his penis.

Joseph leaves him lying there, naked, bleeding, semen dripping from his hole. One final threat, “Leave her alone or I’ll do it again,” ringing in Dom’s ears.

Eventually, Dom is able to get to his hands and knees. He gathers his tattered clothing, wrapping it around himself as best he can.

He hisses and winces as he limps out to Stan’s house. Joseph must have tied Stan after he’d—fucked? Raped?—Dom. He hasn’t fed him or replenished the water in his bowl, so Dom does that too.

It is getting dark, the setting sun throwing deep shadows around him.

Marie isn’t in the kitchen when Dom drags himself up the steps into the house. For that, he’s grateful. He makes it upstairs and into the bathroom where he draws a hot bath.

He sinks into it, whimpering at the pain that flares when his bottom contacts the water. He scrubs quickly, not looking at himself. When he washes where Joseph hurt him, his hand comes away bloody, and no matter how hard he cleans it, he still feels dirty.

Dom wraps in the largest, softest towel he can find—which is not very large nor very soft at all—and trudges to his room. He grabs Caesar, tucking the dog against his chest as he crawls under the blankets, still naked. He doesn’t want to wake up tomorrow.

He doesn’t want to be here anymore.

~ * ~


	6. Six

~ * ~

The next morning, Dom’s head doesn’t hurt when he wakes up. Other places still ache though, so he isn’t sure if it counts as something good yet. He dresses in his Depeche Mode t-shirt and Dad’s jeans, folding and cramming the clothes Joseph had ruined into his backpack. He puts the pocket watch back in his left pocket, his harmonica and his aunt’s ballerina in his right pocket.

Marie looks up from her paper when he settles gingerly in his chair after the first round of chores.

“Do you want to go back to the doctor?” She asks, probably seeing how rough he’s looking.

Dom shakes his head. “I’m feeling better,” he lies, wondering if he should tell her about Joseph. He studies her face and the way she looks at him with detached interest, like maybe she wouldn’t care, or even worse like she wouldn’t believe him.

He doesn’t think she’d listen anyway. She hasn’t exactly been welcoming.

Marie hums, going back to her paper. “Oh, by the way, Sally would like you to help out at her house.”

Dom fumbles his spoon. Thankfully he’d had nothing in his mouth or he would have choked. He can’t find his voice, and Marie doesn’t notice, continuing, “She’s offered to pay for your time if you help pain her house and help with her garden. Ever since her husband’s death, she hasn’t had the motivation to do the necessary upkeep.” Marie looks wistful.

Dom thinks of her dining room and the front room, both crammed full of what Dom’s mom would call trash. He clears his throat. “Do you want me to help her?” he asks. He hopes she says no.

“Well,” Marie says softly, “it would be a nice gesture of goodwill. She did help me a lot right after Johnnie died.” She sighs. “Can you help her? She wants to get her house presentable enough so that she can sell her farm. I think she’s tired of living way out here anymore.”

“When do you want me to go to her house?” Dom finishes his cereal, carrying the dishes to the sink. He doesn’t turn around, waiting for Marie’s answer.

“Since weeding only needs to be done every third day and I need more pain before you can work on that again, you can go today. You’ll spend no more than six hours at her house doing chores for her every other day.” Marie folds her paper and carries her plate to the sink. She squeezes Dom’s shoulder, and he holds his breath, hoping that she doesn’t realize that he’s trembling under her grip.

Marie looks at him, an unreadable expression on her face. “I’ll see you for supper,” she says, turning him around and giving him a push toward the door.

Dom wants to ask about lunch. So far, he’s been darting in, throwing a few slices of meat and cheese between some bread and running out again. He doesn’t know if Sally intends to feed him. She seems more likely to…to have sex with him.

He almost asks if he can beg off, but he doesn’t want to anger Marie. He doesn’t know how she will react to him saying no. He doesn’t know how to tell her that he’s afraid.

Who’s afraid of sex? Dom is apparently. Shame floods him as he stumbles out into the summer sun.

He does the rest of his chores woodenly, dreading more and more the closer the time to go Sally’s approaches. There is no way that Dom can think of getting out of it but if he takes Brunt out to pasture first then he will have the excuse of needing to take him home to escape before Sally makes him stay all afternoon.

It’s a solid plan, only because he can’t think of anything else.

Dom drags his feet, leaning Brunt to pasture and then circling back around to head toward Sally’s house. His palms sweat and he wipes them on his jeans, less nerves and more fear.

He wishes he had Stand with him. Maybe the dog would drag him into another concussion and he won’t have to do this. He knows sally’s going to make him lie with her again, have sex with her again. It isn’t a matter of if, it’s when.

Dom swallows down his nausea, blinks back tears. He should have told Marie that he can’t do this. He should have fought harder to not be sent here. He should have told Sally no.

Not that she’d have listened; she doesn’t seem the type.

He doesn’t think he can tell her no now either.

His head still twinges from his minor concussion, and his—butt? Asshole?— _there_ aches from Joseph.

Dom stops walking. Joseph raped him because Sally is raping him. If Joseph knows that Dom is going to Sally’s house, then he’ll rape Dom again.

Dom curses under his breath, blinking back a sudden spring of tears. It’s not far, he thinks, bitter and angry. Why are they doing this to him? Why is he supposed to keep their secrets?

Does he really have to? Why exactly can’t he tell Marie? He doesn’t know for sure that she won’t believe him, so it’s worth a try, right?

Dom spins on his heel and smacks into Joseph’s chest.

“Have you learned nothing?” he growls, hand clamping down on his shoulder.

Unbridled fear surges in Dom’s chest, and he shivers almost violently. “I’ve told you to leave her alone.” Joseph shakes him hard enough to rattle his teeth.

“I’m supposed to help my aunt’s neighbor with her house,” Dom manages to spit out. Joseph shakes him harder, and the movement makes Dom’s headache surge.

“Do I need to teach you another lesson?”

“No.” Dom hopes he sounds braver that he feels.

Joseph sneers at him, using his grip to haul Dom back toward the barn. Dom yells, twisting, trying to break free. Sally’s house is _right there_. She can’t not hear them. To shut him up, Joseph slams his hand against his chin and he goes down, stunned. Which allows Joseph to pick him up like a sack of potatoes, slung over his shoulder.

He marches to the barn, and Dom sobs once. He doesn’t want to be raped again but he also knows there’s no one to stop Joseph. If he wants top strip Dom and fuck him, then no one is going to stop him. No one except Dom.

When Joseph drops him down in the dirt in the tack room, Dom crawls under the table. It offers little in the way of protection, but there are tools, hooked spikes, thick brushes, things that Dom can use to defend himself if he can get Joseph to knock them down before he succeeds in raping him again.

Joseph gets a hand on the back of Dom’s jeans when there’s a loud crack and something kicks dust into the air—not that their struggle hasn’t thrown dust up too.

Joseph pulls off of Dom silently. Dom waits a few seconds before rolling onto his side and looking back to see his aunt pointing a rifle at Joseph’s face.

“Dominick?”

Dom stands up, wiping at his nose. Blood. He’s bleeding. He hadn’t realized Joseph had hit his nose.

“Dominick?” Marie repeats, and Dom shakes himself.

“I’m okay,” he says. It’s a lie that they both choose to ignore. He moves to stand behind her. Joseph’s eyes track his progress. Marie lifts the rifle to press it against his chest.

“What were you doing?” she demands.

“Whatever you thought you saw, it wasn’t that.”

“And just what do I think I saw?” Marie asks, voice low, dangerous. Joseph doesn’t answer. “Uh huh. Dominick, go call the sheriff. Number’s by the phone. Hurry now before my finger gets tired.”

Dome hesitates only long enough to see Marie deliberately place her finger on the trigger and Joseph’s face drain of color before he scurries away. He thinks he remembers where the phone is in the front room.

He races through the kitchen and into the dining room, skidding across papers and crashing into the wall. There’s no time to do a damage assessment, and he scrambles up, limping into the front room.

He finds the telephone and number much easier than expected. He takes deep breaths, trying to control his wild gasping, while he uses a shaking finger to move the large rotary dial.

“Sheriff Cummings,” a gruff voice barks, and for a precious second, Dom thinks he accidentally dialed the clinic instead. “Sheriff Cummings,” the voice repeats louder.

“I need help,” Dom says. “Marie Carisi’s farm.”

“What’s the situation there?” Dom can hear the rustling of a belt, the rattle of its buckle, a snap of a fastener. “What am I walking into?”

“My aunt has a gun on her hired hand.”

“Jesus,” the Sheriff mutters. “I knew that Joseph Mathers was trouble. Hang tight, kid. I’m coming. ETA forty minutes.”

Dom cradles the receiver. Inexplicably, a sob breaks out of him, a flood of tears running down his face. He sinks to the floor, digging out his aunt’s ballerina. Surprisingly, it’s unbroken after being in his pocket during Joseph’s attack.

He runs his thumb over the engraved word. Then, he stands up, wiping tears, snot, and blood on his shirt. He sets the ballerina by the phone, adding the pocket watch after a moment. He finds Marie’s stick by the kitchen door and hefts it onto his shoulder.

Forty minutes, Sheriff Cummings promised. Marie’s finger still might get tired long before then.

When he enters the barn again, his aunt has Joseph tied up, ropes wrapped around his torso, arms pinned to his sides. Marie notices him and waves him over.

“We need to get you out of here,” she says.

Dom wants to ask why but he thinks he can guess when he sees Sally petting Brunt, who Dom left out in the pasture. He looks between his aunt and Sally and realizes that Marie knows about what Sally did to him.

“You’ve got to get out of here,” Marie says, taking her stick from him. She hands it and the rifle to Sally. “Come on.”

Marie is choosing Sally over him.

She’s choosing one of his abusers over him. Dom is too stunned from the betrayal to do more than let Marie drag him to the house and up the stairs to his room. She grabs his backpack and crams his clothes into it. He notices, belatedly, that his destroyed clothes are not in the bag anymore, and he turns to his aunt, questions on his lips.

“I was looking for my statuette,” she explains before he can say anything. “Johnnie gave it to me after I stopped dancing.”

“And you thought it was in my bag?” Dom asks, ignoring the swell of guilt that says it was in his bag before he moved it.

“It hadn’t been missing until you showed up,” Marie says with little inflection. “I had to check.” She pauses, Caesar dangling from her hand. “I found your clothes, methodically cut. Damningly cut.”

“How’d you know to come to the barn?”

“I heard you yelling, and I saw Joseph carrying you.” She thrusts the backpack at him. “I need to get you on the road before the Sheriff arrives. I don’t know if he’ll believe the truth. You can’t be here anymore.”

Dom wants to protest—doesn’t he deserve the right to tell the Sheriff about what’s happened?—but then the recalls Sally standing with Brunt, holding Marie’s gun. Marie had already chosen and it wasn’t Dom’s side.

He grabs the backpack and, holding his head high, marches downstairs.

He resolutely doesn’t cry even though he feels like he’s breaking inside.

~ * ~


	7. Seven

~ * ~

Marie climbs into the truck, and Dom hauls himself in, biting back a hiss when he settles into the seat.

At first, stupidly, he thinks they’re going back to Doctor Cummings, but they take a right at the fork, and that means they’re heading for the town with the bus. Of course “getting him out of here” means sending him home.

Marie doesn’t speak the entire ride into town. Dom tries to break the silence, and each time she stares at him until he falls silent again.

He wants to apologize for what’s happening, but he doesn’t know how she’d take it. Whether she’d blame him or not.

She knows anyway, he thinks. There’s no way she doesn’t. Her mouth is a sharp line of disappointment and her brown is sharply creased in anger. And she won’t talk to him.

Oddly, a bus is waiting at the depot. The last time they were here, Dom got the impression they didn’t run all that frequently.

Marie barely waits for him to clamber out and slam the door shut before she skids away, tires spitting gravel. A rock catches Dom beneath one eye, and he claps a hand over it.

He knows it’ll bruise; he already feels it swelling. It doesn’t matter anyway. His nose is still swollen and tender from running into Sally’s house.

The bus is the same one he rode in on, so he is a little more at ease than he otherwise would have been as he climbs aboard, crumpled five dug out from one of the side pockets of his backpack. The driver nods at him, and Dom takes a seat halfway back. He sets his bag beside him on the seat, places his knees against the back of the seat in front of him, in the most uncomfortable position he can think of, and closes his eyes.

It’ll be a six hour drive before he’s back in New York City. He wants to worry that his parents don’t know he’s coming, but he’s still numb from Marie. From Joseph. From Sally.

He sleeps most of the ride home, dreaming alternately of Brunt, Stan, Caesar, and the glass ballerina that represents his aunt. Thankfully, he doesn’t dream of Sally or Joseph. Not yet anyway.

When he wakes, foggy headed and dry mouthed, he almost doesn’t remember what’s happened, and spends a few moments blinking at the young man who was kind enough to shake him awake.

Dom’s right, his parents didn’t know he was coming home early. No one is at the station, and he walks the thirteen blocks with his backpack slung over one shoulder, trying to pretend to be tougher than he is.

The black eye helps, and he remains unbothered the whole way home.

Relief floods him when he finally reaches the familiarity of his block. Bella is sitting on the front steps, playing with a doll she pestered Dom to buy her with his Christmas money when the shirt was a bust. She looks at him, wide-eyed and almost angry looking. Then, she sucks in a huge breath and screams, “Mom! Sonny’s home!”

Dom winces, shooting her a sour look as she smiles angelically at him.

“Sonny?” Mom shouts out an open window. Dom waves at her, but he can’t help but notice that same anger from Bella on her face. “Door’s open. Come on up,” Mom continues, like Dom’s some guest now.

He can’t shake that feeling as he climbs the steps, Bella stabbing at his back with her doll. When they reach the apartment, Mom and Dad are standing out in the hall, and wordlessly, they step aside to let him in.

Everything is different. Dom stops moving, and Bella runs into him. She punches his back, and he waves her around him, but he can’t stop staring. He was only gone for like three days.

The living room has finally been painted white with red trim, like Mom’s been threatening to do since forever.

All the furniture is changed—a like-new couch and matching recliners. An unscratched coffee table complete with coffee table books.

Even the carpet looks new-ish.

Dom turns around. Mom and Dad look wary, like there’s going to be so many new rules to go with the new look, and they’re expecting Dom to throw a tantrum. But, he’s not Gina. So he takes a deep breath, says, “Looks good,” and heads toward where his room used to be.

Instead, he meets a constructed alcove with two doors inside it.

Bella, standing by the pink door, points at the blue door.

He notes the other bedroom has been sectioned too, with a purple door and a glittery white door.

Of all the rooms, his blue door hides the smallest room.

His desk has been shoved against the wall he shares with Bella now, and there is barely any room for his dresser or his bed. There is definitely no room for him to move around. Dom hand signs to Bella, who is still guarding her door, and she lets him peek inside. She’s got enough room for a bed, dresser, desk, closet, and a new beanbag chair.

He points at the other room, and she gives him a tour of Theresa’s—purple—and Gina’s—glittery white—rooms. They each have the same setup as Bella with a new piece of furniture. A vanity stand for Gina and a reading chair with attached lamp for Theresa.

Dom goes back to the living room, a protest of the unfairness of the rooms dying on his lips as he finds Mom and Dad sitting in the recliners, holding hands—which they haven’t done in forever.

Quietly, he returns to his room. Bella shoots him a sympathetic look he thinks is maybe fake and disappears back into her room.

He sits on his bed, letting his backpack set beside him so he can dig out Caesar.

He can feel the tears coming. He doesn’t want to cry, not for this and not where his family can hear him. So, he bites Caesar’s paw and lies down with his face muffled in his pillow.

He wants to know why Marie is mad at him. He wants to know why his family seems to hate him now. He wants to know why Sally decided to do to him what she did. What did she see in him? Dom isn’t getting any answers here, and frustrated, he smashes his face into his pillow, biting harder at Caesar’s paw.

Sometime later, he wakes. Caesar’s paw is damp where it’s hanging from his mouth. He feels fuzzy, worn out, and not all there.

He scratches his head, stretching as he tries to shake feeling back into his arms and one of his feet. Someone knocks on his door.

“Coming,” he says. He tucks Caesar back into his backpack; he’ll unpack later. When he opens the door, no one’s there, but he finds a note taped to the floor. It says “DINNER.”

It’s one of the signs he and Bella used when no one would talk to each other. Dom wonders if they’re being silent because he’s back.

He slips into the bathroom to splash his face and wash his hands. By the time he takes his seat at the table in the kitchen, everyone else is already eating.

“So,” Gina says, grinning as she twirls her fork in her pasta. “James asked me out. I think we’re going to the movies.”

Dom stares at her. She _hates_ James. At least she did when he left for upstate.

After supper, he digs out more clothes to wear—an old movie t-shirt and a pair of black shorts. His boxers are damp, his fingers coming away tinged pink, but it doesn’t appear to have soaked through to his jeans. Dom dusts off his clothes, folds them neatly, and stuffs them deep in his hamper. He’ll wash them before Mom can try.

He sets his harmonica on his desk, knowing that he’ll never play it again.

Dom feels petty and silly, lying on his bed, thinking over the past few days, wondering what he did wrong. He remembers Sally’s deft fingers, her hot mouth, and while shame floods him, interest perks another part of his anatomy. Not _all_ of what she did felt bad. He just needs to find what he likes without someone taking it from him, he decides.

He recalls her instruction of how to pleasure himself when no one else is around. Can he do it? Will it make him feel better?

Dom doesn’t know, but right now, he’s willing to try. He makes sure his door is locked, and he props his chair under the knob for extra protection.

Then, he pulls off his clothes, folding them neatly and laying them on his desk.

Naked, he climbs back into bed, diving under the covers. Heart hammering, he waits for a few minutes, listening for the footfalls of his parents or sisters. When all remains quiet, he maneuvers to lie on his back, still completely covered by the blanket.

It’s a little warm, but Dom doesn’t dare poke his head out. Instead, he touches himself, rubbing the smooth skin and the short wiry hair at his crotch.

It feels…lacking. Sally had used her mouth, and that had felt good even if he hadn’t liked that it was her doing it. Right now, Dom doesn’t feel anything except latent embarrassment and shame.

Sitting up, making sure the covers stay over him, he drools onto his hand. He’d spit, but he thinks Bella might hear him, and it’d be just like her to tell on him.

Instead, once his palm is damp, he wraps his fingers around his penis and jerks slowly. It feels a bit better but still off.

The drag is all wrong, rough calluses catching on the skin. The wetness dries up and Dom stops to lick his palm again. Salt sits on his tongue, burns.

He holds his penis, stroking it. Slowly, it starts to fill. Once it’s hard, he digs his thumbnail into the slit at the top, using his other, dry hand to stroke under his scrotum.

Almost immediately, his erection flags, and he whimpers in disappointment.

Sally had—she’d used her tongue, licked him, lapping like a cat, fingers sliding all over his penis as she’d slicked him with her tongue. He’d flagged then too when she’d pressed her fingernail into his slit, the pain too sharp.

At least that’s the same, Dom thinks bitterly. He lies down again, running his hand down his chest, skirting where he’s ticklish, drumming his fingers against his stomach, lower and lower until he can wrap his hand around his penis and just hold it.

What else had Sally done?

She used her mouth and her fingers. Her vagina. And after that, a small bottle of unscented lotion.

When Dom works in Mom’s bakery, which is not often and not for long, he washes dishes for Mom, his hands dry out and crack. Mom let him have some of the special lotion she uses when her hands hurt. Dom still has the bottle somewhere.

He climbs off the bed, pulling on his boxers just in case someone interrupts him.

He finds what he’s looking for tucked away on his desk, and he strips and ducks under the covers again. This time when he wets his palm with the lotion and rubs it over his penis, it feels almost like Sally is touching him again.

He ejaculates into his palm and sobs at the sensation.

He doesn’t feel better. He won’t. He buries his face in his pillow to muffle his sobs. He hates the way Sally touched him, he hates Joseph for hurting him because of her, he hates Marie for returning him like the broken goods he is, and he hates himself for not being strong enough to tell Sally no, to fight off Joseph.

Dom doesn’t know what to do now, but he sure as _fuck_ knows he’s not telling anyone. He doesn’t need their false pity or their anger. He doesn’t need them to drive him to a bus stop and send him to the middle of nowhere. Not again.

~ Fin ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends _The Glass Ballerina_.
> 
> A few points:  
> 1) the word (Russian) engraved on the ballerina's base is "Thank You." Johnnie was thanking Marie for giving up her dreams to marry him (she'd suffered a career-ending injury and didn't tell him until later).  
> 2) Marie got Joseph arrested but didn't learn about Sally's abuse until Joseph's trial. At that time, she got her "friend" arrested.  
> 3) The effects of the abuse Dom suffered over a span of two and a half days had far-reaching consequences that will come to a head approximately a year after the events of this story. They will be somewhat chronicled in _I Miss You Even Though You're Still Here_ (with more focus on his trauma starting after Chapter 12).
> 
> Thank you again to all who read, kudos, bookmark, subscribe, and comment. Your feedback is greatly appreciated.


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